Apocalypse «Beginning of the End»
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The day was in full swing, and the sun was hot in full force, causing a desire to hide in the shade. The singing of morning birds was replaced by the chirping of millions of insects from the grass, which formed into a rumble against the background of general silence.
I was standing at a fork in the road that had been broken by trucks. On my right side was a yellow gas pipe, mounted on metal supports, on the left was an artificial bridge, and under it was a dirty semi-permanent rivulet, the banks of which were everywhere trampled by cattle. A low picket fence, rickety in places, framed private houses and stretched in a string along the road into the very depths of the village. The houses here were different: both small, rickety old ones, and solid-looking cottages, but they all looked empty and abandoned with the shutters of the windows tightly closed. I did not hesitate to go to the city.
The sun was in full swing, and the streets of the city center were clearly visible. Garbage not removed for months, which was taken away by stray dogs, cats and crows, filled the roads and sidewalks. Colliding wrecked cars were abandoned at almost every intersection.
People in a panic left these places, leaving the city infected, which at that time were not so many, and I even met other survivors. True, everyone who could now be met looked too belligerent, so it was not always desirable to make contact. Most often they exchanged greeting gestures and dispersed.
Sheets were hung from the windows, with calls for help written on them or radio frequencies to communicate with rescuers. Blood stains on the walls and sidewalks and the unbearable smell of burnt plastic created a depressing atmosphere. You usually experience something similar when you are in a cemetery.
It was easy to move around without being noticed during the daytime. True, I understood that luck cannot be eternal. Sooner or later you can run into trouble.
Soon I reached the central intersection of roads, from here it was possible to get into the industrial zone, where the survivors' shelters were located. In a neighborhood abandoned by people, next to which there was an old garment factory. The road led from here to the exit from the city, where I organized a shelter for my car. On the left, the road went down to the private sector, there was little of interest to me there. Among other things, it was possible to look around here, because in the houses abandoned by people leaving in a panic, for sure, one could get hold of something useful.
Under the scorching afternoon sun, along a broken dirt road, I reached a fork in the industrial zone. There were no infected here at all, and it was possible to move around safely. Finally getting out onto the asphalt and shaking off the dirt that had stuck to his shoes, he looked around. In front of the house stood a stand made of boards with signs. The inscription on it, executed with obvious errors, said that if I went to the left, I would come to the Oplot shelter. If I go to the right, it will lead me to the Zastava hideout. Walking to the territory of the warehouses, which were located directly, was highly discouraged. There, according to the words on the stand, there was a corral for the lost infected, who were herded there during the cleansing of the territory. Among other things, it was said that gasoline can be purchased in Zastava. And in the Oplot to rest and eat, however, the Oplot was closed for the night,
Behind the booth one could see warehouses fenced off by a high strong fence. There, a real army of the infected walked around the territory. To think of approaching them, you need to be absolutely reckless, because this is, consider, certain death. To the left was a high fence, behind which the Oplot was located. On the right hand in the distance one could see a wall sheathed with rusty tin and a large blind gate, near which stood two men with weapons. It was a survivor's camp called Zastava.
The first thing that caught my eye on the way to the gates of the Oplot was several dozen corpses scattered along the roadsides. Traces of blood on the pavement and white-painted curbs indicated that the corpses were dragged there from the road, freeing the roadway. Some traces of blood were fresh, and in their clots one could see hair, pieces of bones and brains. In order not to smell, I covered my face with my sleeve and tried not to look at my feet.
The stronghold was located on a huge storage area, surrounded by a tall stone and wooden fence with barbed wire on top. The fence rested on a two-story building with a checkpoint, which, in turn, grew into silver-colored metal sliding gates. An imposing searchlight hung above them, and the gates themselves were upholstered on the back with plywood, which hid the territory of the warehouses from prying eyes. On the outer side of the gate hung a huge poster which read: “Attention, driver! 5km/h,” and then in red crossed out circles there were images of a cigarette, a bottle, a dog, a fire, a camera, and so on. At the end of this list, someone artfully depicted an infected stretching his hands forward, crossed out with a red line and circled in the manner of other prohibitions. Checkpoint, painted in beige color, with barred windows on both floors and a heavy iron door, it looked very shabby. Some of the windows were broken and covered with plywood on the inside. There were many bullet holes and dents on the walls and the door, judging by which, the battle here had once been serious.
Approaching the gate, he felt eyes on him, but could not see anyone who could observe the zamnaya. They could see me from at least two points: this is the second floor of the checkpoint, where a dark window could hide the shooter, as well as a three-story building located on the territory, closest to the gate. On the roof of this building was a high pillbox made of sandbags, the roof and loopholes of which were covered with a dense layer of camouflage mesh.
Just in case, I raised my hands a little, showing my good intentions, slowly approached the iron door of the checkpoint and, loudly knocking on it with my fist, began to wait. From the territory of the Stronghold, various sounds reached me: the voices of people, the barking of dogs, someone's laughter, and even the noise of a jackhammer. Life in the refuge was in full swing. Nobody opened the door for a long time, and as soon as I was about to knock on it with my foot, the latch on the other side clicked loudly, and a thin man in a vest opened the door. At first glance, he could have been about thirty-five years old, but the short gray hair on his head made him look older, and his weathered face with long black eyelashes betrayed gypsy blood in him. Squinting and wrinkling his forehead, he looked me up and down and greeted me in a loud, perky voice:
– Hello, tramp! Come on, raise your hands and this … turn around!
Shrugging my shoulders, I complied with his request. Meanwhile, he continued to take the lead in the conversation.
– Bites, abrasions, scratches? Have you been in contact with infected people?
“No…” His pressure was a little discouraging. – In the sense of having contact, but God had mercy – they did not bite.
– Refugee?
– Something like that.
“It’s rare now that new ones come,” he stepped aside, letting me inside. – Come in…
I entered a dusty and heavily smoky room. The man who opened the door for me, slamming and bolting the door, proceeded to the watchman's booth, located immediately to the left of the entrance. I followed him and, standing at the watchman's window, I expected what would happen next. Now I noticed two more men with weapons sitting at the other end of the room, silently watching me. Meanwhile, the gypsy who met me sat down in the watchman's chair and, opening a thick magazine that lay in front of him, looked at me inquiringly.
– Do you have a passport?
With some disbelief, I took out my passport and placed it on the table in front of him.
– So, Artyom! – said the gypsy, looking at my ID and writing something in his journal. – Our procedure is as follows: now I am writing you down as a guest, then you go to Trofimych, he is in charge here. You will talk with him, decide where you will be sent, there are generally few civilians here, they are in Lesnoy for the most part. Call me Pasha, if anything. What questions do you have, ask. I decided to ask him what he knows about the virus.